


they wanna wake up with you every day

by hardlythewiser (sequinedfairy)



Category: Pod Save America (RPF)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-30 03:17:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11454849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sequinedfairy/pseuds/hardlythewiser
Summary: inevitable last-night-in-dc fic





	they wanna wake up with you every day

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to [nahco3](http://archiveofourown.org/users/nahco3/pseuds/nahco3) for the constant support and everything else, [grace amazonplanet](http://archiveofourown.org/users/grace) for feeding my need for praise, and [threeturn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/threeturn) for, as always, giving it emotional coherence and making it so much better.
> 
> title from betty who, somebody loves you, a tommyjon jam if i ever heard one
> 
> as always, keep it secret, keep it safe, be chill.

Lovett’s antsy at his going-away party. Tommy can tell from the way he sips his drink and fiddles with his straw, the way he's always looking around to make sure no one’s having a better conversation than he is, the way his feet kick against the bar stool. Tommy wishes he could just slide up behind him, put his arms down his chest and pull his body against Tommy’s, until he relaxes like he sometimes does in their apartment. But Lovett doesn't want that; he winces, just a little, every time Tommy touches him in public, and if nothing else, Tommy can read signals. So Tommy sips his whiskey soda, chats to Lovett when they happen to be in the same circle of conversation, watches carefully for when Lovett might be ready to go home. 

Tommy wishes that he hadn't made Lovett finish packing before they left for the bar, because then Lovett would have a funny reason to dip out early, could tell a joke about panic naps, and Tommy could find him a cab home, touch his thigh in the backseat, maybe pack for him that night. But he did, and now he's stuck here until Lovett feels satisfied that everyone in DC will not be better off without him as he secretly suspects and will instead miss him desperately. Tommy actually will miss him desperately, but not in the unexpected, satisfying way Lovett wants, just depressingly, boringly, needily. So Tommy doesn't mention it to Lovett: if Lovett wanted to know, the signs were all there. Lovett is moving across the country, which says everything that needs to be said. 

Eventually, Lovett meets his eyes, halfway across the bar, and Tommy takes a calculated risk, jerks his head towards the door. Lovett’s face loosens, just a little bit, and he nods, imperceptibly. Tommy easily excuses himself from the conversation he’s having, walks over to where Lovett and Favs are joking around, Favs laughing with his whole body. Lovett’s watching him intently, adding more and more bits to his joke as Favs laughs harder and harder. They’re both locked on each other, completely oblivious to the rest of the world.

It’s fucked up how much worse Tommy’s life would be if Favs, who’s his best fucking friend, was less of an idiot, noticed who made him happiest, who loved him best. Tommy knows that’s Favs’ obliviousness to what Lovett wants is part of why Lovett’s leaving, can read it in the aggressive way Jon told Favs first and made him give advice, from how Jon decided to move after spending a month just working with Favs on the fucking Correspondent’s Dinner jokes. Then again, his life would also be a lot worse if his roommate didn’t assume he was fundamentally unlovable, because then he would notice how Tommy felt and stop doing whatever it is -- was -- that they were doing. In any case, none of it matters anymore. 

“Tommy!” Favs says, drunk and loose and easy. “Tell Lovett he can’t leave early from his own going away party. He’s already abandoning me for Andy and Hollywood, he at least has to take a shot with me.”

Lovett looks at him, expectant. “I’m the one who has to wake him up in the morning and carry his boxes into the U-Haul, so, I’m not gonna stop him from leaving,” Tommy says.

“Don’t worry,” Lovett tells Favs, fake-sweet, “I’ll be sure to do lots of shots with your more handsome brother and send you pictures while you’re working fifteen-hour days.”

Favs laughs again, because Lovett’s never made a joke about Favs too mean for Favs to laugh at. They just roll off his back like water on a duck, even jokes that are objectively hurtful, that Lovett says sharply, not really joking at all. Tommy’s not like that: Lovett’s words burrow under his skin, sharp edges cutting him open unexpectedly weeks later. Tommy’s still thinking about the joke Lovett made months ago about Tommy being needy after sex, even though he knows Lovett fell asleep two minutes later and forgot about it by the next morning. Favs lets things go without even trying, and Tommy is constitutionally incapable of letting anything go, not stories, not words, not people. That’s probably why Favs is dating a Hollywood star and Tommy has a broken engagement and a hopeless thing for his roommate.

They extract themselves a few minutes later. Favs mentions Rashida and Lovett’s mouth quirks, an unintentional giveaway showing how much Lovett hates himself for being into a dude who's other option is fucking Rashida Jones. Tommy always wants to tell Lovett about his tells so he can hide them better, but Lovett would hate that. Instead, Tommy yawns, just a little exaggerated, and Lovett says, “I need Tommy awake and carrying all my boxes, and not asleep on the bar floor, so we’re going.”

Favs gives Tommy a hug, and then wraps Lovett in a big, heartfelt, unselfconscious hug. Tommy can see Lovett tense up at first, and then relax into it, give himself over to the hug, eyes closed. Favs turns his head a little, whispers something in Lovett’s ear. Tommy can’t read Lovett’s face -- he doesn’t think Lovett knows what he’s feeling, either.

Lovett opens his eyes, makes eye contact with Tommy. Tommy flushes, caught out, but Lovett just smiles at him, wry and rueful. He steps away from Favs, squeezes his shoulder, then walks out of the bar with Tommy.

DC in August feels like a warm, wet sponge slapped over your nose and mouth every time you’re outside. Tommy never really feels clean, just differing degrees of sweaty: cold, frozen sweat in the AC of the White House, hot sticky sweat everywhere else. Tommy goes on long runs whenever he can, but he has to fight through the weight of the air, comes back drenched with sweat. Lovett heckles him from the couch, usually, until Tommy ducks into the kitchen to get some water. Lovett never refills the ice tray, so Tommy’s water is never cold enough, but he leaves Tommy an ice cream sandwich in the freezer sometimes, after days Tommy works later than usual, one of the little things he does that Tommy’s dumb lonely brain attaches too much meaning to.

Lovett’s walking back to their house pretty quickly, enough that Tommy isn’t slowing down to match his pace, and his eyes are straight ahead. He’s quiet for once, and Tommy wonders if he’ll be quiet for the rest of the night, if he just wants to go to sleep when they get back. That would be fine, of course. Tommy’s been thinking about this night, thinking about asking for a little of what he wants, but Lovett’s got no obligation to him, to this night. Tommy watches a bead of sweat drip down the side of his neck, starting at his jaw, visible in the streetlights and disappearing in the moments between them. 

“You know,” Lovett says suddenly, “if you told high school me I worked at the White House like Sam Seabourne, I -- I mean I wouldn't really be surprised, because I was a pompous little shit, but if you told me I was fucking leaving because of dumb feelings about a straight dude, I’d be really unsurprised.”

Tommy laughs. It's the first time Lovett’s explicitly acknowledged how he feels, but Tommy could feel him getting closer, had time to prepare the non-reaction Lovett wants. 

“Everyone's gotta leave sometime,” Tommy says. 

“Not you, you fucking lifer,” Lovett shoots back. 

Tommy can't picture living like this for (knock on wood) five more years. It's only been a few months at the NSC and he's already bone tired, campaign-level exhaustion but without the adrenaline, just terror and routine and necessity pushing him along. “I'm gonna quit when you least expect it,” he warns, “become a beach bum, show up in California.”

“Probably by then I will have failed at Hollywood so thoroughly that I’m already living on the beach because I refuse to go back to DC. We can fight over the best patch of sand.”

“We can share it, be roommates again. Probably cleaner than our current place.”

Lovett laughs, unexpectedly loud, and Tommy tries to memorize the feeling, lodge it safe somewhere in his brain that he'll be able to access later. 

Tommy lets them into the house. Lovett walks to the freezer, opens it up, starts rooting around for a red popsicle. There are six half-full boxes filled with orange ones, but Jon ignores those. Tommy figures he’ll have to throw them out soon. He doesn’t need the processed shit or the sugar, doesn’t need to think about Lovett’s red red mouth sucking on a popsicle and how nice it was to kiss him after, mouth all sweet and cold.

“Tommy, it’s my last night and you couldn’t even make sure I had a red popsicle to eat? I know you’re ready for me to leave, but this is uncalled for,” Lovett says, aghast, working himself up.

Tommy walks behind him. He thought he saw one this morning while he was getting ice for his water, tucked behind some frozen veggies Tommy bought in a moment of delusion. He doesn’t move Lovett out of the way, just reaches over his shoulder, pulls out a red one, triumphant. “Hm, all for me, delicious,” he says, just to hear Lovett make an indignant little whine. Lovett snatches it from his hand, sticks it in his mouth. Tommy wants to kiss him, like always, but worse. 

They’re standing in front of the freezer, cold air hitting their faces, Tommy pressed up against Lovett’’s back. Tommy should close the door, see if Lovett wants to go to the bedroom, but he doesn’t move.He looks down at the red popsicle sticking out of Jon’s mouth. He can't decide if it's worse or better, knowing it's the last popsicle, the last night. It makes him faintly reckless. Lovett eats the popsicle, sucking obscenely. Tommy can see goosebumps on his arm, sweat cooling on the back of his neck. It’s a weird, suspended moment, one of the many that have been happening, at least in Tommy’s head, for the past week. Eventually, Lovett puts the stick on the counter where Tommy will have to deal with it later and shuts the freezer. Tommy presses him against the fridge, kisses the sweetness out of his mouth. Lovett lets him, then pulls away. “Bed?” he asks. Tommy nods.

Jon starts walking towards Tommy’s room; his sheets are packed up, but even before Tommy packed them, Lovett hadn't slept in his bed in a week. Tommy’s AC is a lot better. 

The house looks almost normal, most of the boxes still in Lovett’s room. The only signs are the books missing from shelves and the ache in Tommy’s chest. Tommy doesn't spend a lot of time looking; he'll have plenty of time to stare at the fucking hallways at three in the morning for the foreseeable future. Lovett’s stripped his jeans off, and Tommy’s breath catches, like always, looking at his nice pale thighs. 

Lovett flops onto the bed and makes a face at Tommy, still stuck in the doorway. It startles Tommy out of his thoughts, and he crawls over him on the bed, staring at his face and running a hand up his stomach. “Hey,” Tommy says, dumbly. 

“I've literally been with you all fucking day,” Lovett says. It's not particularly mean, but it hits Tommy hard, anyway. Last day where he can just be with Lovett, wake up with him and spend all day laughing at his jokes. 

Instead of responding, Tommy leans down and kisses him. Jon kisses back, a little drunk and easier than normal. Lovett shoves his shirt up, but Tommy doesn't want it to move that fast. He doesn't pull it off, just keeps kissing Jon, stroking his hands over his still-clothed belly and chest. 

Jon wraps his thigh around Tommy’s hip, and Tommy slides his hand up Jon’s thigh, almost to his boxers. Jon reaches for the lube Tommy’s given up putting in the drawer of his bedside table and now just lets sit out, shoves it into Tommy’s hand. 

Tommy knows he's supposed to fuck Jon. That's what they do, that's what Jon likes. Tommy likes it too, obviously, more than likes it, but he feels like he's a few seconds from flying apart, can't keep it together just touching Jon, let alone fucking him. 

He can't stop thinking about getting fucked. He hasn't really thought about it, not seriously, since sophomore year of college, with his boyfriend. One of the three people he's ever been in love with. It's weirdly funny that only a few people know about Ian, when literally everyone on Earth can google and find out how fucking dumb Tommy was about Katie, considering that they left Tommy the same way: Tommy assumed it was forever, they didn’t want that, and eventually they told him. No one knows about Jon, which is nice, and Tommy at least knew enough to not assume, not that it made a difference in what he wanted. 

He kisses Lovett’s jaw, can't look at his face, can feel his cheeks heating up. “Wanna -- wanna do it, like, the other way?” he forces out. 

“What?” Lovett asks. Tommy can't read his tone, which he hates. 

He ducks his face a little farther, biting at Lovett’s neck. “Like -- you, uh, doing me,” he says. It's quiet for a second. “We don't have to,” he reassures Jon. It's selfish, he knows. He probably shouldn't have asked. He thought there was nothing left to lose, that it was worth it to try, but it was a poor calculation. Losing this last night is worse than he thought. 

“You want that?” Jon asks. “You want me to fuck you?”

Tommy can't look at Jon. “Yeah,” he says. 

“You don't even know if you like it,” Jon says. “I'm not fucking taking your gay virginity.”

“I like it,” Tommy says. He hopes Jon won't have any more questions, even though everything he knows about Jon says there will be. “You're not -- I've done it before.”

“You've gotten fucked in the ass by a dude before,” Lovett says, incredulous. 

Jesus Christ, Jon is such a monster. Too bad Tommy doesn't care. “Yeah,” he says, head still buried in Jon’s neck. 

“When? How? Who?” Jon demands, rapid-fire. 

At least four times a week sophomore spring; because he was dumb and in love; Ian. “College,” he says. “It's not a big deal. If you want to, I know I like it. If not, we’ll just do it like normal.”

Lovett laces a hand through Tommy’s hair and tugs, pulling so Tommy’s bright red face is right in front of Jon’s. Tommy can't make eye contact, even though that's an obvious tell. 

“I'm not gonna fucking say no,” Jon says. “I was just surprised.”

Tommy’s still fully clothed but he feels exposed, flayed open. He's not sure what to say. Jon pulls at the hem of his shirt, and Tommy pulls it off, grabbing the collar at the back of his neck. Jon kisses him again, and Tommy melts into the kiss. “Take off your pants,” Jon says into the kiss. Tommy does, trying to tug at Jon’s shirt at the same time. He manages to get it off, so they're both just in their boxers, dicks pressed together.

“Jesus,” Jon says. His hand is sliding down Tommy’s back, and Tommy’s breath catches. The AC is high enough that Jon’s hand feels good, warm and alive. Tommy spreads his legs a little, settling more firmly on Jon. 

Jon helps him slide off his boxers. They can't find the lube, lost in the sheets, and Tommy has to sit up, totally naked, and shake out his comforter until it falls out, smacks Jon in the hip. They’re both giggling, Jon fake-pouting, and it lets a little air back into the room, lets Tommy relax a little. It's Jon. Underneath all of Tommy’s dumb feelings, it's Jon, and Jon’s a good friend, a good person. 

Tommy starts to reach for the lube, but Jon gets it first, pushes him back on the bed. He settles in between Tommy’s thighs, and Tommy makes room for him. Tommy can hear the AC sputtering, Jon breathing, the sound of the lube cap opening. He reaches up, touches Jon’s side just to feel the soft soft skin. Jon opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, but nothing comes out. He slicks up his fingers, traces one up Tommy’s thigh, faint tremors going through it already in anticipation.

“Breathe,” Jon says, and Tommy does, lets out a shuddering breath he didn’t know he was holding. Jon starts moving slowly, the tip of his index finger dipping in.

Fuck. Tommy forgot how intense this was, how fast Tommy loses control, how different it feels than anything else. Jon’s touched him there, a little bit, during blowjobs, but it’s so different as the main event, when there’s nothing else to think about, just giving himself up totally to Jon. Tommy’s good at sex because he’s good at noticing stuff, good at paying attention to his partner, good at putting preferences into action. Here, he can’t do anything but gasp and try not to say anything too destructive.

Jon doesn’t seem to mind, though. He’s started a second finger, is stroking up and down Tommy’s chest, pushing the hair against the grain. Tommy’s watching him, his familiar face, dark eyes and soft cheeks, and Jon meets his eyes. Usually Jon would look away, but there must be something on Tommy’s face that communicates how desperately he wants Jon, because he keeps looking, eyes intent on him. It's like Tommy’s a difficult speech or what he imagines his thesis was like, Jon serious and focused in a way he isn't often. He leans up to kiss Tommy as he scissors his fingers.Tommy lets a murmur out into Jon’s mouth. 

The room is hot, streetlights coming through the window blinds, sweat on the sheets that still smell like sex from that morning. They've fucked a lot in this bed, Tommy trying to make Jon lose it, give up all the layers of sarcasm and distance he wraps himself in and just be Jon, open and vulnerable and only for Tommy. He knew Jon was fucking plenty of guys in his own bed, that Jon being his was only a fantasy, but he couldn’t stop thinking it. Now it's Tommy who's giving himself up for Jon, totally, completely, blowing past all his protective measures. He’s almost out of his head, almost forgetting all the reasons he didn’t do this before, almost nothing but sensation and feeling.

He’s lost track of how many fingers Jon is using, is just holding onto him, hand on the back of his neck keeping him close. Eventually Jon pulls out, and fuck, that’s a weird feeling. Jon must see it on his face, squeezes his hip in apology, strokes Tommy’s dick as he grabs a condom from the almost-empty box on the bedside table.

“You weren’t lying,” Jon says, looking at him.

“Lying?” Tommy asks. He’s not thinking straight, which is nice. His phone’s on silent, he’s giving himself this night.

“About liking it,” Jon says, almost smiling, not laughing at Tommy, more rueful.

“Jesus, no, I fucking like it, come on Jon,” Tommy whines. He hasn’t whined like that in years, at least, but he needs it, needs Jon inside him.

Jon strokes down his side, whispers, “Shhhhhh,” rolls the condom on quickly. Tommy lifts his leg, flushing, and Jon hooks it around his arm, his hand reaching Tommy’s thigh. 

Jon pushes in, and Tommy stops breathing.

His brain’s on loop, _Jonjonjonjonjonjonjonjonjon_. Jon’s looking at him so intently, and Tommy’s looking back, feeling every inch of skin Jon is touching, the overwhelming sensation of giving himself so fully over to Jon. He can’t think about making it good for Jon, can only hope it is as he bites his lip to keep unnecessary words inside.

Jon kisses him, soothes the indents on Tommy’s bottom lip with his tongue, presses himself totally against Tommy. Tommy takes a deep breath, lets go, and Jon starts fucking him for real, steadier than Tommy thought he would be. Tommy’s hands are opening and closing on Jon’s shoulders. He’s lost at sea, almost fully untethered to himself, to reality, just in a world of him and Jon and nothing else.

When he can’t resist it any longer, he reaches down and grabs his dick where it’s pressed between them. The first touch of his dick is almost too much it feels so good, and Tommy hisses, clenches a little. Jon starts fucking him faster, whispering, “Fuck,” and Tommy tries clumsily to match his pace, his hand sloppy on his dick. He opens his eyes again, just wants to see Jon’s face, and is surprised to see Jon still looking at him, intent, eyes soft and mouth a little open. He meets Jon’s eyes and Jon smiles, a little shaky, runs his nails up Tommy’s side until Tommy gasps and bucks his hips, pressing his dick up against Jon’s stomach.

“Fuck, I’m close, are you?” Jon asks, some eternal moments later. It takes Tommy a second to process, but he nods, and Jon reaches up, laces his finger through Tommy’s hand where it’s clutching at the sheet. “God,” Jon says, “you look so good, never even fucking imagined you’d like this, Jesus, Tommy.”

Tommy can’t respond, is just moving his hand frantically, biting at Jon’s neck probably too hard. Jon squeezes his hand as he pushes in, as Tommy runs a thumb over the head of his dick, and that’s it for Tommy, he comes without any more conscious thought. 

Jon keeps fucking him, and Tommy can barely breathe, sensitive and shaking. Jon comes just as it’s becoming too much for Tommy to handle, collapses onto Tommy. Tommy never wants him to pull out, never wants him to move away.

For a few minutes they just rest there, stuck together, matching breaths. Eventually Jon pulls out and Tommy winces involuntarily. Jon kisses him sweetly and Tommy opens his mouth for him, still too out of it to kiss back well. He pulls off the condom and throws it in the direction of the trash.

Eventually Jon reaches over to the bedside table, grabs some tissues. He pulls apart from Tommy with a cute, grossed-out face, and Tommy giggles a little. Jon pinches him lightly, then cleans them both up with the tissues, crumpling them and throwing them in the same direction as the condom. 

“Thanks,” Tommy says, quiet and too-sincere.

“What are you thanking me for?” Jon says. Tommy opens his mouth, trying to answer, but Jon continues. “That was fucking -- you look so good getting fucked, God, Tommy. How unexpected.”

Tommy can feel himself pinking up. He’s not sure what to say, too unsteady to do their usual post-sex dance. But Jon’s not doing it either, not rolling away or making jokes, just looking at Tommy, even now. 

“Good idea, Thomas Vietor the Fourth,” he says, solemnly.

Tommy can’t control his smile. “Thanks, Jonathan Lovett,” he says, hand settling onto Jon’s lower back.

Jon tucks his face into Tommy’s neck, and Tommy slowly strokes his pinkie across the small of his back, over and over again. Tomorrow’s going to be bad, and Monday worse, but he’s here, now. Jon’s here, now. There’s no one else in the bed with them. Favs doesn’t get this, and Jon’s probably not thinking about him right now. Tommy can keep this moment.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm [here](veryspecificfantasies.tumblr.com) on tumblr, screaming, as always.


End file.
